


You Come Crashing In, Like The Realest Thing

by hopelessromantic549



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Growing Up Together, Mostly fluff not gonna lie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-05-31 16:53:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6478306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopelessromantic549/pseuds/hopelessromantic549
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma Swan is 10 years old when Killian Jones comes waltzing into her house like some kind of storm intended to turn her entire world upside down. She doesn't know it yet, but he's about to change her life.</p><p>(Emma and Killian, growing up together and becoming each other's safe haven.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’ll be the first to admit that this fic commits SO MANY TROPES that I can’t even count them all. What can I say? I’m a sucker for the whole "we’ve grown up together and have pretty much always been in love with each other and everyone likes to make fun of us for it but obviously we take forever to admit it because we’re idiots trope," so here you go. ~ 20,000 words of Emma and Killian growing up together and failing to admit their feelings. This is unashamedly cheesy and I honestly can’t even apologize for it. Next and final chapter will be up in the next couple days. Enjoy! 
> 
> Loosely inspired by 15 by @nowforruin, which you should all go read because it is epic and I read it literally every time I need a pick-me-up.
> 
> Title from Half of My Heart by John Mayer and Taylor Swift.
> 
> Thanks as always to @emlovesyouuu from ff.net for her tireless help editing my insanely long fics. You are a true gem and I’m so grateful for you every day.

_You are an island_  
_And my ship has run aground  
__\- All We Are by OneRepublic_  

Emma Swan is 10 when she meets Killian Jones.

She’s been living with Ruth Nolan and her son David for six months; it’s the longest she’s ever managed to stay in a foster home, and she’s finally beginning to feel comfortable in the airy Storybrooke house. Ruth is warm and maternal, explaining to Emma that her husband died a few years ago and that she and David like to fill the void with children who have never had a family. David is the older brother she’s never had, ruffling her hair when he tells her goodnight and making fun of her in a teasing way that contains no malice. It’s the closest thing to a home Emma has ever had, and she’s determined not to screw it up.

David is four years older than Emma, a boy on the brink of becoming a man, and one day he brings home a boy named Killian. Emma sits on the stairs, cradling her knees to her chest and not-so-surreptitiously watching Killian meet Ruth. He’s got a British accent, as far as she can tell, and he’s got this mess of inky black hair falling over his forehead and these impossibly blue eyes that sparkle in the evening twilight. Emma can’t hear much of the murmured conversation, but she watches as David says something soft, his hand gripping Killian’s shoulder, and as Ruth’s face screws up in answering sympathy, her arms coming around Killian until he heaves an audible sigh and buries his face in the crook of her neck.

The interaction is all too familiar to Emma – perhaps Killian is a lost boy, just like Emma has been a lost girl for longer than she can remember.

Killian and David disappear into the living room, presumably to play video games or do some other male activity, and Emma deliberates for only a moment before scampering down the stairs after them.

“What are you boys playing?” She asks authoritatively when she approaches them, her hands on her hips.

David and Killian look up, and they’re both smiling, and Emma suddenly feels embarrassed, although she has no idea why.

Killian pats the spot next to him on the couch. “Why, Mario Kart of course,” he says, continuing to smile as she sits down. She feels small and childish, but she doesn’t necessarily mind. She’s always considered herself fiercely independent, and sometimes, it’s nice to feel taken care of.

“Have you ever played this game before?” He asks her.

She shakes her head, shooting a quick glance at David; he’s intently maneuvering his character on the screen, his fingers moving like lightning on the controller, but the line of his spine is rigid. She can tell he’s listening, can tell he’ll jump in if he thinks she feels the slightest bit uncomfortable. As always, he’s protecting her.

As always, she loves him for it.

She looks at Killian. “Can you explain the game to me? I want to play!”

Killian grins broadly, bumping her shoulder with his. “Of course, lass.”

They spend the next several hours playing game after game of Mario Kart, until Emma can give her older brother a run for his money. There’s a lot of shit-talking – Emma doesn’t know any curse words, so mostly it’s a lot of “I bet you the last piece of Ruth’s chocolate cake that I’m going to win this round” – and David and Killian rib each other affectionately like teenage boys do. It’s a very typical family afternoon.

Ruth pokes her head in at one point to ask if Killian will be staying for dinner. Killian starts to protest, but David cuts him off firmly, and Emma catches the smile tugging at the corner of Killian’s mouth.

She was right – he’s definitely a lost boy.

Ruth calls them into the dining room for dinner an hour later. David is up the second Ruth starts yelling – his insatiable appetite is notorious – and Emma is quick to follow. But Killian pulls her down, his hand curling around her waist.

“I’m Killian,” he says, flashing her a million-watt smile.

She smiles back shyly. He knows that she knows his name, but she can tell that he wants her to feel comfortable around him. Most people ignore her entirely, and no one ever _accommodates_ her. It’s…nice.

“I’m Emma,” she says.

She pulls him up, and they go into dinner, and she spends the whole time feeling safe and warm.

She doesn’t know it yet, but this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

…

Emma is 14 when she realizes that Killian is a man.

She’s always known it, of course. She has a brother, after all, and she may be young but she’s not stupid. Killian has been around pretty much nonstop since that first dinner four years ago, and she’s learned a lot about him since. She knows that his parents died when he was very young and that his older brother Liam has taken care of him for the past decade, that he lives in the states now because the US government is more understanding of their familial situation than the British government, that his eyes change color as frequently as the tide of the ocean, that he’s the best friend David has ever had and that he never fails to bring laughter into their home. She knows that she never wants him to leave and that she’s going to cry when he goes to college in a few weeks.

She knows more about him than she does about anyone in the world (except David, of course), but somehow, she has forgotten he’s a man.

That is, until she’s sitting at the kitchen counter reading a book, and David and Killian come in from a run, and her mouth goes dry.

It’s mid-July in Maine, and it’s absolutely sweltering outside, the heat unrelenting and unforgiving, suffocating to the point that Emma spends most of her time at the pool down the street. She’s hated this summer so far; she feels like she’s in a persistent state of stickiness, and she has to sleep naked if she wants to get any rest at all.

But right now, she really doesn’t mind the heat, because David and Killian are both _shirtless_.

Emma barely looks at David, naturally. He may not be her biological brother, but he’s basically a father figure to her, and even her puberty-addled brain can’t manage to sexualize him.

Killian is a different matter entirely.

He’s standing by the fridge guzzling a bottle of water, clad only in black basketball shorts that ride low on his hips, and Emma is transfixed by his Adam’s apple bobbing. Her brain can’t quite keep up as her eyes frantically skate over every inch of exposed tan skin, but boy does she try – she traces the hard ridges of his abs, the patch of wiry hair on his breastbone gleaming with sweat, the muscles in his arms straining when he pulls open the fridge door to root around for food. She can’t seem to look away from his sculpted back; she soaks him in greedily, imagining licking that drop of sweat pooling just above the waistband of his shorts, imagining tangling her hands through his hair and getting lost in the warmth of his mouth.

Emma should be appalled by these traitorous thoughts. She’s only 14 – she can honestly say that she’s never fantasized about a man before. But she’s really, really not appalled, probably because she’s too busy wishing Killian saw her as anything other than his baby sister.

Because if he did, she’d be within her rights to jump his bones, and as it is, she’s just hot under the collar, flushed bright red with embarrassment from her own hormones.

She doesn’t realize her staring has been obvious until David flicks her on the forehead.  
  
“Earth to Emma,” he says fondly, ruffling her hair. “You still with us?” 

Emma blinks, swallowing hard. Killian, thankfully, isn’t paying them any attention, but she’s been caught in the act of ogling by her _big brother_. She would really like to be swallowed up by the floor right about now.

“You might want to pick your jaw up off the floor,” David says mildly, rummaging in the fridge for the ingredients for a sandwich, and now Killian actually is looking at Emma, and _oh god she hates herself_.

“See something you like, Swan?” Killian asks playfully, his voice low and suggestive as he waggles his eyebrows.

Emma finds herself literally unable to speak.

(Potentially because she likes the sight before her very, very much.)

David bumps Killian’s shoulder. “Don’t be gross with my sister, Killian,” he grumbles. “She’s only 14, don’t objectify her.”

Killian just laughs, grinning that amazingly addictive smile of his, and turns away to make his own sandwich.

Emma practically bolts out of the kitchen.

(Needless to say, Killian stars in her fantasies for most of the next decade.)

…

Emma is 16 when she gives up the only thing that has ever been hers.

She gets pregnant, and she hates herself for it, hates herself for being the cliché foster kid who couldn’t keep her legs closed, hates herself even more because she was stupid enough to get herself pregnant by someone who walked out before she even had a chance to tell him. She hates herself so much that sometimes, she just wants to curl into a ball and waste away.

There’s chaos in her house for about a week. David comes home from college specifically to tell her he’s got her back and will go after Neal and punch his face in, Ruth lectures her about the proper use of contraception while simultaneously fussing over her prenatal vitamins and promising that she’ll support her no matter what she decides to do, Mary Margaret brews her endless cups of tea and forgoes passing judgment in favor of assuring her that everyone makes mistakes and that this will not define her life, and Killian –

Killian takes a week off of university just so he can hold her hand and watch her favorite movies with her. He doesn’t ask her about her pregnancy, and she doesn’t volunteer any information. All she ever talks about with anyone these days is what she plans to do about her pregnancy (Ruth thinks they should raise the baby together, David thinks she should have an abortion, and Mary Margaret remains carefully neutral). It’s a relief to talk about the classes Killian is taking and the cute girl in his geology seminar. Killian has always been an easy presence for her to be around, and now more than ever, she feels inexplicably comfortable just sitting on the couch with him as they wait for David and Ruth to come home from the grocery store.

But they’re watching a particularly stupid episode of Chopped when Emma finds herself asking quietly, “What do you think I should do?”

Suddenly, she discovers that she wants to know his opinion.

He turns to look at her, his blue eyes bright and steady. “Does it matter what I think?”

She casts her gaze to her hands, her fingers twining and intertwining in her lap. “Yes.”

He sighs, and she knows he’s running a hand through his hair. “Emma –” He begins.

“Just tell me what you think,” she cuts in curtly. “Don’t sugarcoat it.”

“Emma,” he says again, softer this time, and she raises her gaze, her lower lip trembling when she sees how tenderly he’s looking at her.

“I think you should do what’s right for you,” he offers, and she can tell he means it. “I think everyone has an opinion, but this is your life. I’m sure you’ve weighed the pros and cons – now you have to go with your gut. So what does your gut say?”

When he puts it in those terms, it’s easy not to hesitate.

“I want to give up the baby for adoption.”

The moment the words are out of her mouth, she knows it’s what she wants. And Killian just nods. “Okay,” he says firmly, like the discussion is over. “So that’s what we’ll do.”

Emma lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding in, and just like that, it’s decided.

…

Emma’s family stays resolutely by her side for the next seven months, accommodating her in every way they can. Emma is lucky that she can finish her junior year of high school; her baby is due in early August, so she can wait out the last two months of her pregnancy at home in peace. During the week, it’s just Emma and Ruth in the house, and they take care of each other. Ruth drives her to all her doctor’s appointments, gets her set up in front of the TV so she can put her feet up every day after school, holds back her hair when her morning sickness hits her unironically in the middle of the night. In turn, Emma keeps Ruth company; David has been out of the house for a couple years, and she knows Ruth gets lonely sometimes, so they marathon old classics and bake ridiculous cakes.

Most weekends, David, Mary Margaret, and Killian descend on Storybrooke. They each take up a role with regards to Emma’s pregnancy, almost as if they discussed it beforehand. David is the resident moral support, reassuring her every time she starts to freak out that she’s doing the right thing and that her child will thank her for this later, promising her that this won’t ruin her life and that she will be okay. Mary Margaret is the consummate organizer, creating a folder of college applications with complicated spreadsheets (she promises Emma she’s going to go to college on time, and Emma has to choke back tears) and calling various adoption agencies with scarily specific questions. And Killian provides much-needed comedic relief – he’s the one who makes stupid pregnancy jokes, he’s the one who takes her for late-night McFlurry runs because “If you whine about needing sugar one more time I’m going to lose my bloody mind,” and he’s the one who makes fun of the sonograms (she has to admit her child looks like a peanut for much of her pregnancy).

Overall, Emma’s pregnancy is much less traumatic than she expected – except for the judgmental stares that get thrown her way at school, of course. She’s still scared shitless, but she has her people, and she’s surprised to find that that makes the burden a million times easier to bear.

And then, suddenly, Emma is nine months pregnant, and her water breaks in the middle of the ice cream aisle of the grocery store, right as she and Killian are debating the relative merits of Moose Tracks versus Cookies ‘N’ Cream.

She must look as panicked as she feels, because Killian’s eyes go calm and sure, and he’s gently guiding her out of the store and into his car before she has a chance to start screaming at the top of her lungs.

He holds her hand all the way to the hospital, even though she thinks she probably leaves several scars from her nails.

The labor is long, painful, and absolutely grueling. Emma is sobbing the whole time, both from the physical sensation of her body being ripped apart and the emotional loss she can already feel, and she almost thinks she can’t take it. Ruth holds one of her hands and Mary Margaret holds the other, and together they coax her through the pushing and the keening. David and Killian wait outside, but Emma feels their presence like a tug in her stomach, and it helps.

But when her son – her _son_ – finally cries out, Emma doesn’t even have it in her to be relieved.

“Emma,” Mary Margaret says softly, “Would you like to hold your son?”

Emma shakes her head. It’s an instinct, a visceral reaction, but she doesn’t take it back. If she holds her son, she’ll never let him go. And he deserves better than that.

“Are you sure?”

Ruth this time, gentle, without pressure.

Emma nods. “I –” She closes her eyes, feeling brittle, fragile, like her bones might start to crack under the weight of what she’s about to give up. “I can’t.”

She hears some shuffling, but she doesn’t open her eyes, choosing instead to pretend that she’s in her bed at home, simply having a lazy morning before she heads downstairs for Ruth’s famous chocolate chip pancakes. It’s easier than trying to make sense of the noises around her – the rustling that must be her son being swaddled in a blanket, Ruth’s shushing as her son continues to wail, Mary Margaret’s whispers with the scrub nurse.

It’s easier than the quiet that sets in afterward, when her son is gone.

Emma must fall asleep, because when she opens her eyes again, it’s dark outside, blue light filtering her surroundings in an eerie glow, and she feels disoriented.

“Hey,” a voice sounds from the corner, and Emma registers that it’s Killian.

“Hey,” she says. Her mouth tastes like cotton.

“Ruth and Mary Margaret went to get coffee,” he says, his voice low and soothing, as if he’s trying not to scare her off. “David went home to grab you some things, and I volunteered to stay with you. I hope that was okay.”

Emma bites her lip, nodding jerkily. The truth is there’s no one she’d rather be with right now. Killian doesn’t ask questions she doesn’t have the answers to, doesn’t push her to talk about her feelings when all she wants is to shut the world out. He’s always been her safe haven, always been the person she could count on to level with her and know exactly what she needs. It’s a relief to see him there. It’s a relief to hear his voice.

They don’t say anything for a long while, and Emma tries to make sense of what has happened. She feels hollow, empty. She wonders if the ache will ever go away.

Finally, Killian stands up, walking towards her bed. He hovers next to her, his eyes kind.

“It’ll happen again,” he says, smoothing her damp hair off her forehead, and it sounds like a promise. “When you’re ready, it’ll happen again.”

Somehow, he always knows exactly what to say.

…

Emma is 18 when Liam passes away.

The phone rings in the Nolan household at three am one night, but what wakes Emma is Ruth bursting through her bedroom door, her eyes wild.

“Emma,” Ruth urges, her voice quivering, “Liam and Killian have been in a car accident. We need to go to the hospital.”

Emma bolts upright, her entire world shrinking to the blue of Killian’s eyes. She gets dressed in a daze, throwing on the first sweatpants she finds and pulling her hair into a haphazard ponytail, and Ruth is saying a lot of words (they spun out on the highway on the way home from Killian’s university, they’re both in critical condition, David has a final tomorrow but will be on the first flight out after that) but all Emma can hear is the loud rush of blood in her ears.

The ride to the hospital is a blur. Emma fists her hands in the bottom of her sleep shirt to stop herself from digging her nails into her skin, and she stares resolutely ahead, her eyes dry, her head spinning. Ruth doesn’t say anything, and Emma is glad; she can’t speak right now. Since she gave up her son, she has often thought that Killian keeps her world turning on its axis, and she does not know how she will continue if he does not make it.

When they get to the hospital, there’s no news. Both Jones men are still in surgery, and no one can give them any information. Ruth cradles Emma’s head in her lap and cards her fingers soothingly through her hair, her calm and steady whisper of “He’s going to be okay” lulling Emma into a restless sleep.

She dreams of the ocean, of that moment when the tide recedes from the shoreline and the water sinks into the horizon. She dreams of Killian, of the day last summer when he took her out sailing – her first perfect day. She dreams of the color blue.

She doesn’t know how much time passes before Ruth shakes her awake, but she knows what Ruth is going to say before she even says it. She’s crying as Ruth explains that Liam’s internal organs sustained too much damage in the accident and that he passed away during surgery. She never knew Liam that well – he was always so busy, trying to earn enough money to make ends meet for him and Killian – but he is Killian’s hero, the only family he has left. Emma’s chest is tight with pain and despair, and she clutches Ruth as tightly as she can, her eyes clouding over with tears. She has no idea how Killian is going to survive this.

Then, abruptly, fear clenches her heart. Killian is still in surgery, and he might not make it.

She knows she can’t lose him.

Thankfully, it seems like only a moment before the doctor emerges from the operating room, beelining for Emma and Ruth. The doctor’s eyes are grim and hard as he walks towards them, his jaw twitching, and Emma steels herself for the inevitable rip of her heart out of her chest, prepares herself for the darkening of her entire world.

But.

“Killian is out of surgery.”

Emma’s already out of her seat, making her way to the ICU, but the doctor’s hand on her arm stops her.

She shakes him off angrily. “I want to see him,” she says, glaring at the doctor. “I _need_ to see him.”

The doctor hesitates, and there’s something off in his voice. “You should wait.”

Emma narrows her eyes. “Why would I wait?”

The doctor holds her gaze, his eyes heavy with sympathy, and she trembles.

“Miss Swan,” the doctor says carefully, squeezing her arm, as if in comfort. “Killian sustained serious injuries in the accident. We were able to fix most of the damage, but some of it was permanent. Unfortunately, when the car flipped, it pinned Killian down, and the circulation to his left hand was compromised. We could not save his hand.”

Emma blinks. “You had to amputate his hand?”

The doctor nods.

Emma is shocked, but it takes her less than a second to adjust to this news. Killian is the most vibrant person she knows, and he will struggle enormously with the loss of his hand. But he is alive, and she will help him get through this. He is _alive_ , and right now, that’s all that matters.

Emma starts to move past the doctor, but again, he stops her.

She wrenches her arm out of his grip savagely. “ _What_?”

The doctor looks at her with pity, and she thinks she hates him. “He’s in a lot of pain,” he says simply. “The surgeon just informed him that his brother passed away and that we had to amputate his hand, and he’s refusing morphine. He’s not himself right now. You should wait until he’s sedated. His entire world has collapsed – you shouldn’t be there right now.”

She continues to glare at him. “That’s _exactly_ why I should be there right now.”

She pushes past him one final time, and then she’s running, the string that has always bound Killian and her together pulling her relentlessly in his direction until she can hear him, screaming and crying and thrashing. She hovers outside his room, listening to the commotion he’s causing. She can’t see anything, the curtains blocking her view.

“We should sedate him!” She hears someone – a nurse, presumably – yell.

Emma has burst into the room before she even notices she’s moved. “No!” She screams, rushing to Killian’s bedside. “No.”

The room suddenly goes very quiet.

“Emma?” Killian whispers.

“Killian,” she breathes in response.

He just looks at her.

She bites her lip. He looks awful. He has bruises all over that unfairly handsome face, red and purple splotches that swell on his cheekbones and shadow his eyes. He has scratches lacing his chest, angry puckering lines dotting every patch of bare skin. And his hand – his arm just tapers off, wrapped in white bandages, and it dangles uselessly at his side. He looks haunted, destroyed, a shell of a man.

But he’s still here. He’s still here, he’s still alive, and he’s still her Killian.

“Killian,” she says again, feeling like she might faint with the sheer relief that he will still be around to tease her and hover over her and anchor her and support her. He’s going to need her so much after this, and she wants to be there for him for as long as it takes for him to be okay (for the rest of her life).

“Emma, love,” Killian says gently, but Emma can hear the pleading in his voice, the trembling that tells her that he is absolutely terrified. “You shouldn’t be in here – I’m not the best company right now, I’m afraid. You should go back and wait with Ruth, I’m sure the doctors will come and get you when –”

The words die on his lips, because Emma has launched herself onto his gurney, her hands cradling his face and her eyes locked unrelentingly with his.

“Killian,” she says softly, stroking his cheeks. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’m sorry, miss,” a voice sounds from somewhere behind her, but she doesn’t turn to look, instead keeping her gaze steady on Killian, trying to give him something to hold onto. “Visiting hours are over. Only family allowed now.”

Emma keeps her eyes on Killian, remembering a million things, remembering when she was 13 and she spent the summer sleeping under the stars with Killian and her brother and making ice cream in the middle of the night, remembering how Killian is the one who makes her laugh every time she gets sad that she had to give up her son, remembering that Killian Jones has never, not once, left her side.

She smiles. “I am family.”

The nurse doesn’t protest, and Killian stares at her with something akin to wonder. But then, his face falls, and it’s devastating.

“Liam’s gone,” he says brokenly, tears leaking from his eyes. But he doesn’t look away; he’s looking at her like she’s the only thing that’s keeping him going. “My brother is gone and I don’t – I don’t know – I can’t – I don’t know how to be without him. He’s been taking care of me most of my life, he was all I had left, and now I just –”

He’s crying freely now, his sobs heavy and heartwrenching in the quiet room, and Emma feels something in her give way. She pulls him close to her, wrapping her arms around him, trying to show him that he may have lost his guiding light but she will always be there to take him home.

“Hey, hey,” she soothes, carding her fingers through his messy hair. “Your brother is gone, but _you are not alone_. I’m here, I’m here, I’ll always be here. And David and Ruth and Mary Margaret. You are not alone, Killian. I’m with you. I’m with you, every step of the way. Okay?”

He lifts his head to look at her, and he looks so damned vulnerable and wrecked that she starts to cry in earnest. This lost boy of hers has been through so much, and he seems to keep losing – it’s just not fair, none of this is fair.

Suddenly Killian’s eyes are wary. “Emma,” he says again, short, clipped. “I’m not sure how much the doctor told you about my…situation, but there’s something you need to know. When the car flipped over on the freeway, my left arm got pinned under the wreckage. The doctors tried to save it, but they had to amputate my hand.”

He pulls back the blankets to reveal bandages wrapped tightly over his stump, and she sucks in a sharp inhale. She’s not shocked or disgusted – she just feels this strong sense that she will be tied to this man forever, no matter what happens in their lives.

Emma tips Killian’s chin up with her fingers, looking at him steadily. “It’s going to be okay,” she says authoritatively, and for once in her life she believes it, believes that she’s going to make sure it’s okay. “I’m going to take care of you, and it’s going to be okay. I promise.”

He nods, his shoulders shaking with barely suppressed sobs, and leans his forehead against hers.

…

Somehow, Emma ends up Killian’s main caretaker. It makes sense – under any other circumstance, Liam would be helping him through this, but Liam is gone. David is at school – he had offered to come home, but Killian had growled at him over the phone that he better “bloody well finish college, mate” – and Ruth works most days. And so it’s just Emma, in her last year of high school, struggling to put her best friend back together.

Killian’s recovery is slow, halting, and all-around awful. Emma had known it would be difficult to rehabilitate his arm and get him used to wearing a prosthetic, but she isn’t quite prepared for the emotional toll it takes to see her favorite person in the world so weak, so beaten down, so _hopeless_. It doesn’t help that Killian is potentially the world’s worst patient – he grumbles constantly, essentially refuses any help, never thanks her for anything she does, and refuses to believe that he can get better.

Emma gets it, honestly. No matter what has happened in his life, Killian has always been healthy and strong. She can’t even imagine how strange and foreign it must be for him to literally be missing a vital part of his self, of his ability to get around and live his life.

She also gets that nearly everything about his situation is emasculating and infuriating. At first, he can’t even put on his clothes without her help; she has to pull up his boxers, studiously avoiding his nether regions even as her cheeks burn. The first couple times, he makes a joke about how it’s only fair that she get undressed now, too, but soon enough, he simply goes blank, letting her help him as he stands there with dead eyes, his arms limp at his sides. It breaks her heart to see him like this, but she bites her tongue. He doesn’t want her sympathy – it won’t bring his brother back, and it certainly won’t change the fact that he no longer has a hand.

But even though she understands how incredibly humiliating this must be for him, and even though she can’t begin to imagine the depth of his pain at losing his older brother, she can’t quite stand how _cruel_ he has become. She could fill a notebook with all the colorful ways he’s hurt her feelings since his accident, and it hurts. It hurts so much that she almost walks away.

(She doesn’t, obviously.)

She snaps about three months after his accident. His physical therapist has him practicing writing – of course, he had the misfortune of losing his dominant hand, because nothing about Killian’s life has ever been fair – and he’s been swearing creatively for about an hour, insulting anyone who will listen. He’s in a foul mood, as he almost always is these days, and Emma has just about had enough of his crap.

“Look, if you’re trying to push me away, it’s not going to work,” she says sharply, her attention focused on positioning his prosthetic so he can try to write some cursive.

The physical therapist’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline, but Emma ignores him. The poor man has been present for nearly all of Killian’s acerbic wit since the accident – this can’t actually be shocking to him.

Killian, meanwhile, doesn’t say anything immediately, so Emma knows she’s stunned him into silence. Good. Let someone else be the asshole of the day for a change.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Swan,” he finally says, stiffly, like it takes effort for him to get the words out.

She looks up at him, refusing to let him get away with this. “Oh, really,” she says flatly, holding his gaze with as much fire as she can muster. “Like you haven’t been a complete and utter _asshole_ since this happened? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re actively trying to get me to leave you alone, and you should give up on that, because it’s not going to happen.”

Killian glares at her, his eyes full of rage, and maybe Emma should be scared, but instead she finds she’s glad. She’d rather he fight with her than give up – she’d rather he put everything he has into this recovery than make disparaging comments all day long and never actually try to get better.

“I think I’m entitled to being an asshole,” he says, cold fury flooding his words, “Considering I lost my _brother_ , if you forgot. And my bloody hand, so don’t tell me that I’m not allowed to be an asshole.”

She shakes her head vigorously. “Of course I didn’t forget,” she shoots back, feeling like she simply has to get through to him, even if he hates her for it. “Your life sucks, I get that. But that still doesn’t give you the right to be an asshole. You’re not allowed to be an asshole to the physical therapist who is just trying to make your life easier, you’re not allowed to bark at David when he calls to check in on you, and you’re certainly not allowed to bite my head off every time I so much as try to help you. You’re not allowed to alienate everyone who’s trying to get you through this.”

“Well, Swan, the problem is I don’t _need_ anyone’s help,” he grits out through clenched teeth, but his eyes have softened a bit, and she knows she’s winning this one.

Thank God.

“You do,” she points out, and maybe she’s being a bitch but at this point she doesn’t even care because they can’t go on like this. “And look, you can bitch and moan at me all you want, but I’m not going anywhere. You might as well let me help you, okay?”

Killian just looks at her for a while, his gaze giving nothing away, and she squirms a little under his intensity. She’s not used to him looking at her like this – whatever _this_ is.

But.

“Okay,” he says finally, softly. “Okay.”

She blinks, somewhat shocked that he’s conceding defeat this easily. “Okay then.”

Things get much, much better after that.

…

A couple months later, David calls Emma. Her brother doesn’t call her very often, and it’s pretty late, so she can’t help but be concerned. Maybe something has happened to Killian, maybe he has fallen and aggravated his stitches, maybe he’s having one of his panic attacks, maybe –

But no. It’s just David being David, checking up on her, seeing how everyone in Storybrooke is doing, asking her if Ruth has made her trademark key lime pie lately and if Killian has made any progress with his prosthetic (he has, thankfully, and Emma thinks it won’t be long before he doesn’t need physical therapy anymore).

Then, suddenly, David’s voice is gruff with emotion. “I wanted to thank you for taking such good care of Killian,” he says, and Emma feels her chest tighten because _oh boy_ , does she want to take care of Killian for as long as he’ll let her. “I hate that I can’t be there to help him through this, but it makes me feel a lot better that he’s got you.”

Emma softens. What a sap her brother is. She’s touched, honestly – she knows David considers Killian one of the most important people in his life, and she’s honored that he feels like she’s up to the current challenge.

“Of course, Dave,” she says gently. “And don’t beat yourself up for not being here. You know Killian would kick your ass if you didn’t finish out this year.”

“No, I know, just – you’re good for him,” he says seriously, his voice so familiar and comforting, even over miles of phone lines, that a wave of peace washes over Emma. “You’ve always been good for him, but right now more than ever.”

Emma blushes, and suddenly she’s glad they’re having this conversation over the phone. “I’m just doing what I would do for anyone,” she says, and of course it’s not true, of course she wouldn’t go to these lengths for pretty much anyone else, but it feels pointless to tell her big brother that she thinks she’s nursing a pretty significant crush on his oldest and truest friend. “He’d do the same for me.”

“He would,” David responds promptly, and Emma tries to ignore the unwelcome flip of her heart in her chest. “But still. He needs someone like you right now. He might bitch and moan about all the physical therapy and everything, but he needs it, he knows he does, he’s just stubborn, and it helps to have someone there to make him go. Just don’t –”

He breaks off, as if he’s hesitating, and Emma perks up curiously.

“Just don’t what?”

David sighs theatrically, and Emma can almost see him squinting in his patented good-guy glare. Oh, David. Her big brother is such a cheeseball, and she adores him for it. He couldn’t hurt a fly if he tried, but he is the most protective person she’s ever met.

“Just don’t hurt him,” David says finally.

“Hurt him? How would I hurt him? _Why_ would I hurt him?”

David makes a frustrated noise. “Don’t make me spell it out for you,” he says sharply. “You’re important to him, okay? Just be careful.”

“Of _course_ I’ll be careful,” Emma shoots back, feeling her hackles rise. As if it would ever be possible for her to hurt Killian. In what universe? “He’s important to me, too. He’s like family, he always will be. I’ll always take care of him.”

“Good,” David responds, and Emma knows she doesn’t mistake the note of satisfaction in his voice. “Now go do whatever annoying thing it is girls do these days.”

Emma giggles, they say their goodbyes, and then the conversation is over. But she can’t quite process what has just happened.

 _You’re important to him_.

She knows those words are going to stay with her for a long, long time.

…

Emma is 22 when she realizes she’s in love with Killian.

David is getting married (to Mary Margaret, of course, and their story makes Emma want to believe in love), and Emma has flown back to Storybrooke for the wedding. Mary Margaret has asked her to be her maid of honor, and obviously Emma has accepted. She adores Mary Margaret, always has, and ever since she and David started dating, she has seen her as the sister she never had.

Emma’s old house is in a frenzy when she arrives, and she smiles fondly as she drags her suitcase through the front door. David wraps her in a bear hug as soon as he sees her and twirls her around like he used to when she barely came up to his knee, Mary Margaret kisses her on the cheek and promises her they’ll go to the dress fitting later before disappearing in a cloud of lavender perfume and fairy dust, and Ruth hands her a steaming cup of hot chocolate prepared just the way she likes it and ruffles her hair. And then Emma simply stands there, cocooned in the warmth of the only place she has ever called home.

Killian suddenly appears in the hallway, and somewhat unexpectedly, Emma’s mouth goes dry. He’s dressed in his trademark outfit of plaid shirt and dark jeans, but he’s not wearing shoes, and something about his sock-clad feet makes her heart turn over in her chest.

“Emma!” He exclaims jovially, apparently oblivious to her flushed cheeks as he walks toward her and folds her into a breathtaking hug.

She sighs in relief, letting herself be calmed by his familiar smell of salt and seawater. She hasn’t seen Killian in months, and she’s missed him. She loves college, she does, but it doesn’t feel right for her to be anywhere other than Storybrooke, and she knows that as soon as she graduates she’ll move back home. She and Killian keep in surprisingly good touch, texting most days, usually snappy things like “Swan, I do wish you would come back to Storybrooke and kick my ass at Mario Kart, I’ve missed having a worthy opponent” and “Please, Jones, you couldn’t handle it.” She Facetime’s him on the way to class, sends him postcards when she finds funny ones, squeals in delight when he mails her drawings of David, of Ruth, of the sea at dawn. But all of this contact is no substitute for the undeniable warmth and safety of Killian’s physical presence, and she leans into him.

They break apart, and he tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, smiling softly when she stifles a yawn.

“Go take a nap, Swan,” he suggests, his fingers tracing her cheek. “The rehearsal dinner isn’t for a few hours, and you must be exhausted from your travels. You’ll need your energy to keep up with Mary Margaret.”

Emma giggles and nods. Mary Margaret is an absolute whirlwind when she gets going – she has an itemized itinerary printed for the four days Emma will be in Storybrooke – and Emma knows she should take her rest while she can.

So she heads upstairs to her childhood bedroom, and she puts on her comfiest pair of sweatpants and fuzzy socks, and then she curls into a ball beneath her comforter and lets out a contented sigh. She’s out in less than a minute.

…

She wakes to the low murmur of voices. Blue light is streaming through the windows, and she shoots a glance at her alarm clock. 5:30 PM. Perfect. She has an hour and a half until the rehearsal dinner, just enough time to take a shower and curl her hair.

She pulls herself out of bed slowly, stretching her limbs and padding downstairs while rubbing her eyes. She feels like a little kid again, shut away from the rest of the world, hair thrown up in a messy ponytail, face scrubbed clean of make-up. She feels safe, inexplicably, warm and understood.

But as she nears the kitchen, she hears something unfamiliar. Is that…arguing?

No, it can’t be. No one ever _argues_ in this household. Even when Emma was 15 and hormonal and hated everyone, Ruth and David never dignified her with answering screams. They just let her rant.

But sure enough, as she hovers outside the kitchen door, she hears Killian and David unmistakably in conflict.

“She’s _married_ , Killian,” David hisses. “She has a _kid_. What the hell are you thinking getting involved with this woman?”

“It’s not that simple,” Killian fires back, and Emma knows he’s moving a hand through his hair and vibrating anxiously. “I love her, Dave. I love her and she’s not happy. You should hear the way she talks about her husband. He’s a tyrant, he’s controlling, he’s awful to her. I can’t just –”

“Is she going to leave him?” David cuts in. His voice is cold; Emma shivers.

Killian hesitates, and the room is quiet for a long moment. Emma holds her breath. Truthfully, it has never occurred to her that Killian and David could have secrets that don’t include her. But they’re four years older than her, and they’re men – of _course_ they don’t tell her everything.

She isn’t sure she wants to know about this anymore.

“I –” Killian hesitates. “I don’t know, mate. All I know is I can’t walk away. I’ve never felt this way before, and I can’t let it go.”

Emma can practically hear David soften, and she knows her brother has moved closer to his oldest friend. “I know you love her,” he says quietly. “I know you want to save her. But Killian, she’s married, and she has a child. Unless you’re worried about their safety, I think you need to stay out of this. This is wrong, Killian. I know you know that.”

Killian sighs, and Mary Margaret suddenly appears at Emma’s side, arching a delicate eyebrow when Emma nearly jumps. Emma wonders if Mary Margaret will chastise her for eavesdropping – the petite brunette is literally a paradigm of goodness – but Mary Margaret instead presses a finger to her lips and leans her ear against the door, her expression mischievous. Emma has to resist the urge to giggle. Her brother is far too serious most of the time – he needs a little mischief in his life.

“Dave, of _course_ I know it’s wrong,” Killian says plaintively, his voice breaking, and Emma aches to reach out to him. “It’s just not as simple as it sounds. Not all of us can be as lucky as you, mate. This is who I’ve fallen in love with, and I can’t stop it. I have to be with her.”

“Then please, just be careful,” David pleads. “I don’t want you to get caught up in something bad here.”

Inexplicably, Mary Margaret chooses this exact moment to grab Emma’s hand and unceremoniously pull her through the kitchen door. Emma keeps her eyes trained on the ceramic tiles as she stumbles over the threshold, but is forced to look up when David laughs heartily.

“Are you two alright?” He asks, clearly amused by their clumsiness, faked or no.

Mary Margaret grins sunnily, tugging Emma towards the stove. “Yeah, we just really wanted some tea,” she says, brushing a kiss across her fiancé’s cheek and squeezing Killian’s shoulder. “Emma’s about to fall over, and I need to make sure she’s awake for the long night ahead of us.”

David nods in understanding, and the four of them fall into easy chatter, like they have countless times before. If David notices his fiancé’s obvious maneuvers, he doesn’t show it. But Killian’s eyes stay resolutely on Emma, and her cheeks burn under his steady gaze, because she can just tell that he’s seeing right through this. Through _her_. He knows she knows. She knows he’ll bring it up later.

She swallows, hard.

…

Emma cries when Mary Margaret walks down the aisle, which isn’t all that surprising. Mary Margaret has been a godsend for Emma’s family in every way possible, and she makes her brother _so_ happy. It’s nice to see their fairytale ending.

The ceremony passes in a blur; Mary Margaret and David say their incredibly romantic vows, both of their voices trembling with emotion, and exchange rings, David’s hand steady as he slips the simple gold band onto his wife’s finger. Emma watches in rapt attention, trying not to cry as she catches Killian’s eye over their best friends’ heads. He’s looking at her intently, his blue eyes soft and full of an emotion she can’t name, and he’s smiling.

She feels a sharp pain of longing and has to look away.

…

Naturally, the best man and the maid of honor have to share a dance. Killian had suggested they take ballroom lessons, but Emma honestly hadn’t had time to come home from school, so they’re going to have to wing it.

“Don’t worry, Swan,” Killian whispers, looking up at her through his midnight-black eyelashes as he twirls her effortlessly into his arms. “There’s only one rule in a waltz.”

She smiles at him warmly, trying to ignore the hiccup in her chest as every inch of her body presses up against his. “And what would that be, Jones?”

He grins at her, wide and tantalizing, and she’s hit with a rush of _Oh_.

She’s so screwed.

She probably always has been.

He leans closer to her, his hand dangerously low on the small of her back, his other arm outstretched to catch her hand. “Pick a partner who knows what he’s doing,” he whispers conspiratorially in her ear, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

She stares at him, dumbfounded. Is he... _flirting_ with her?

She doesn’t have much time to ponder the possibility, though, because suddenly, they’re dancing.

Killian, true to his word, knows exactly what he’s doing. He moves her seamlessly to the beat, sweeping her around as if it takes no effort at all. She’s tucked flush against him, their faces close enough that she can see the flecks of grey in his eyes, and he’s smiling at her the whole time, the kind of unrestrained smile that reminds Emma that he’s the first guy she was ever attracted to.

They don’t talk for a while, Killian no doubt concentrating on making sure Emma doesn’t step on his toes, Emma doing her best to forget that she craves him in ways she didn’t know it was possible to crave someone. It’s not so easy right now, not when she can feel the hard planes of his stomach, not when she can see his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, and certainly not when she can hear his low intake of breath when a nearby couple bumps into them and Emma falls forward, even further into him, her breasts threatening to spill out of the bridesmaid’s dress that in hindsight is a smidge too small.

The tension evaporates, though, when suddenly the music switches to something slower, more dreamy. Emma automatically steps back, but Killian just as automatically follows her, his arm firmly around her waist, keeping her from stumbling.

She looks at him quizzically and he just stares back, his gaze smoldering.

“One more dance, Emma?” His tone is light, but he’s calling her Emma, which he never does unless he’s trying to be serious.

Emma hesitates, but she steps toward him again anyway, twining her arms around his neck. She’s caught off guard by the warmth of his skin beneath her fingertips. She looks anywhere but at him, her gaze falling on David and Mary Margaret, who are lost in their own little world, identical blissful expressions on their faces as they sway in place.

Emma sighs. “They look so happy.”

Killian chuckles, his hand tightening at the base of her spine. “Aye, they do, love,” he says, his mouth impossibly close to her ear. “You’ll have that someday, that I can promise you.”

She still doesn’t look at him, instead resting her head on his chest, letting the rhythmic beat of his heart lull her into calm. “And what about you?” She asks, trying – and definitely failing – to keep her voice casual. “Is a fairytale ending in the cards for you?”

He pulls back abruptly, putting some distance between them so he can look at her. His gaze is shrewd.

“You heard me and Dave in the kitchen.”

It’s not a question.

She shrugs, determined to brush this off, even though she’s pretty sure the burning in her chest could be accurately described as jealousy. “What can I say? I’m an eavesdropper.”

He sighs, scratching that telltale spot behind his ear, and it occurs to her that he might not necessarily _want_ to have this conversation.

“It’s okay,” she says hurriedly. “We really, really don’t have to have this conversation.”

He makes a frustrated noise. “No, no, it’s not that. I just –”

“You just?” She cuts in, and now she can’t help herself, she’s very curious.

He sighs, heavy. “It’s not – it’s not exactly something I’m proud of,” he admits, and she realizes for the first time just how tired he looks. “Not exactly my finest moment, I’m afraid.”

“Killian,” she says fiercely, because all of a sudden it’s really important that he understands this, “I’m _never_ judging you. You didn’t judge me when I got pregnant, did you?”

He doesn’t say anything, his face unreadable.

“Did you?” She pushes.

He sighs again, then shakes his head. “No, of course not.”

She nods. “No, you didn’t judge me,” she says with satisfaction. “And I’ll never judge you. You are my family, and I’m always here for you, okay?”

He looks at her, and she can tell he’s shocked. “You’re not…you’re not, I don’t know, disappointed in me?”

She scoffs, shaking her head in disbelief. “Of course not,” she promises him, and she means it, and her mind is reeling from how obvious it is that he couldn’t bear it if she were disappointed in him. “It sounds like a complicated situation, and I’m sure you’re doing the best you can. And you must love her a lot to be doing this.”

“I do,” he says softly, firmly, with such conviction that she blinks.

(It’s traitorous and awful and wrong, but a bigger part of her than she would like to admit wishes he were talking about her.)

“Well,” she falters. “There you have it. I knew you wouldn’t be doing this without a good reason, and so I’m not going to judge you. But I am with David on one point.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

She nods, shuffling a little closer to him and hiding her face in the stiff collar of his dress shirt so he can’t see the tears beginning to hover in the corners of her eyes. “I want you to be careful,” she says, soft, and it pains her to confess it because a different kind of ache is possessing her at the moment, an ache she’s been ignoring for years, an ache that has seemingly decided to make its existence known at the most inopportune of times. “I worry about you, you know? I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I won’t,” he promises, just as soft, and there’s nothing but sincerity in those tauntingly familiar turquoise eyes. “It’s like I always tell you, Swan. I’m a survivor.”

She giggles, and they start talking about something else, and before she knows it, the party is coming to a close. But the whole time, she can only think of one thing.

She’s in love with him.

And it’s so clear, so obvious, that she knows she has probably felt this way forever and has just been afraid to face it. She loves him. She’s in love with him. He’s in love with someone else, but that hardly matters. She thinks she might always love him, no matter what happens between them.

Of course, she doesn’t say that to him. She just smiles up at him, his blue eyes impossibly dazzling in the twinkling lights, and whispers, “You’re going to be okay.”

He grins at her, warm and fond. “Yeah,” he says, pulling her a little closer so she can rest her head on his chest as they sway to the music. “ _We’re_ going to be okay.”

She closes her eyes and just breathes.

…

She goes back to school, and she throws herself into her classes and her friends and her social life. She goes on dates, sleeps with people, pretends she’s capable of falling for someone. She fields exasperated phone calls from David, who keeps trying to get Killian to break it off with Milah (to no avail, of course), chats with Ruth about all the Storybrooke gossip, lets Mary Margaret talk her ear off about the renovations she and her new husband are doing on their house.

She barely talks to Killian. It’s a two-way street, and they both drop the ball. He doesn’t reach out much, presumably because he’s wrapped up in Milah, and she doesn’t try either, because he’s with someone else and she needs to move on.

Of course, not being in contact with him doesn’t help. She’s still in love with him. And it doesn’t just go away overnight. If anything, it only gets stronger, until she’s resigned herself to one undeniable fact.

She’s in love with Killian Jones, and he’s not in love with her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well...here it is, the last chapter! More cheesiness and tropes abound. Again, what can I say? I'm a sucker for this couple and them being cheesy. I love angst, don't get me wrong, but sometimes I just need Captain Swan being cutesy as all get out, you feel?
> 
> Thanks to @emlovesyouu as always. 
> 
> You guys are the best, thanks for your support and love and encouragement!!!

_I’d tell you that I loved you before I ever knew you  
_ _\- New York by Snow Patrol_

Emma is 26 when she realizes that Killian is it for her.

She’s sitting on her couch with a glass of red wine, unwinding after a long day of running after criminals. Being the Sheriff of Storybrooke has its perks – she gets to set her own hours, for one, and thank God, because she is _not_ a morning person – but today she had to chase Will Scarlet all over town, and she’s beyond exhausted. She’s been dozing on and off, her head lolling against the decorative throw pillows Mary Margaret bought her when she moved in three years ago, but she doesn’t even have the energy to get herself into bed.

A loud knock at her door suddenly startles her awake, and she jumps to her feet, wondering who on Earth could be bothering her at this hour.

“Emma?” A voice rings out, and Emma stills.

“Killian?” She answers in disbelief.

She has barely spoken to Killian since she moved back to Storybrooke. They’re not exactly on bad terms, but he has been immersed with Milah, and she hasn’t wanted to get involved. She knows he and David aren’t speaking – about a year after the wedding, Mary Margaret called Emma to tearfully tell her that David and Killian had a falling out, and David had sworn not to talk to Killian until he broke things off with Milah. Emma and Mary Margaret had both tried to broker peace countless times, but the two men were stubborn, and they dug their heels in, refusing to budge. All their relationships had become strained as a result, and so Emma was truly thrown that Killian was on her doorstep.

Not to mention the fact that Emma had vowed to put distance between her and Killian after discovering that she was in love with him and her feelings were unrequited.

“Emma, please let me in,” Killian pleads; it sounds like he’s been crying, and Emma’s heart clenches. “I know I’ve been a wanker these past few years, but I _need_ you. I have nowhere else to go, and I just – please let me in, Emma, please.”

She swings open the door, and there he is. _Killian_ , black hair and blue eyes and stubble and prosthetic, just like always, except there’s something wrong, there’s something off, and she –

“You’re bleeding!”

Killian shakes his head fervently. “Not my blood, love,” he says, taking a faltering step forward. “It’s – it’s Milah’s.”

Emma’s eyes widen in shock. “ _Milah_? Is she okay?”

Killian winces, and then, his face crumples.

Emma doesn’t hesitate. She simply steps closer to Killian and pulls him into her arms, feeling his heartbeat, erratic and uncertain in his chest. She walks him into her apartment, peeling his bloodied clothes off him slowly and carefully, helping him get in the shower, feeling like she might cry when he stands naked under the stream, letting the water run over his face, his eyes lifeless. She wants to know so badly what happened, but he’s clearly not ready to talk, and so she brews him some tea and makes him some chicken noodle soup, and she waits.

He emerges from the shower in the sweatshirt and sweatpants she’s laid out for him (they’re his, of course – she’d taken them long ago), his eyes bloodshot. She wonders how long he’s been crying.

“I made you some chicken noodle soup,” she says tentatively.

He nods gratefully, sinking into a chair at her counter. He’s quiet for a long moment, steadily eating his soup, but finally, Emma can’t help herself any longer.

She covers his hands with her own. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

“I don’t know about that, Swan,” he says darkly.

She stands up so she’s in front of him, cradling his face in her hands. “I do know,” she says softly, soothingly, holding his gaze. “You’re my family. Nothing you say or do is going to change that.”

He swallows, and she leans her forehead against his, breathing him in. She can feel his shoulders shaking, and his hands twist in the front of her shirt. She can tell he’s falling apart, and she whispers, “It’s okay, you’re okay, you’re going to be okay, I’m here, I’m not going anywhere, it’s okay” over and over again until his breathing starts to regulate and his tears start to slow.

(She has to bite her tongue to stop herself from telling him she loves him and she’ll never leave his side.)

Finally, he pulls back from her, clutching her hands desperately, and then, he tells her what happened.

He tells her how he and Milah have been together in secret for the past few years, how they stayed in hotels on the weekends she could spare and would spend every day they had together lounging in bed and trying to stretch out their moments together for as long as they could. He tells her how he loved her so much that he would take anything she would give him, have any part of her he could, no matter the risk. He tells her how he begged her to leave her husband every time they met up, how he promised her that he would take care of her and her son, how all he ever wanted was to keep her safe and make her happy. He tells her how the last few weeks had been fraught with tension between them, how their relationship had been reaching its breaking point, how he knew they could not sustain their status quo much longer.

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, his knuckles white as he grips the edge of her table, and she gets up hurriedly.

He gives her a curious, almost hurt look. “Going somewhere, love?”

She smiles at him over her shoulder, reaching into her cabinet to retrieve two mugs. “Alcohol,” she explains, searching for Killian’s favorite bottle of rum. “I think you’re going to need some alcohol to get through this.”

He smiles at her grimly, and she pours him a generous helping of rum before gesturing for him to continue. He downs the glass, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes, and she pours him another, not even raising an eyebrow. She knows grief, she knows pain, she knows loss. She’ll give him whatever he needs right now.

“Milah’s dead,” Killian says suddenly, his lower lip trembling.

Emma stills. She knew this was coming. She hasn’t spent a significant amount of time with Killian in more than a year; she knows it must have taken a traumatic event to bring him to her door. But still, she feels visceral shock and sorrow at his words.

She reaches for his hand impulsively, hoping he can take some comfort from the contact. “I’m so sorry, Killian,” she says softly, and she means it. She may never have approved of his relationship with Milah, but she knows how much he loves her, and she feels herself splitting in two in response, her entire body aching for him.

“It was her husband,” he says, eyes trained on her granite countertop. “She called me earlier today to tell me that her husband had found out and that I couldn’t come to see her until she figured things out. I could tell she was trying to be calm, but something was clearly wrong. I could just feel it.”

He pauses, seeming unable to continue, and Emma moves closer to him, stepping into the circle of his arms, her hands soft on either side of his face. “I’m here, Killian,” she says, tipping his chin up and holding his familiar blue-eyed gaze. “I’ve got you.”

He bites his lip, hesitating, and then it all comes out in a rush.

“Of course, like the arse I am, I went to see her anyways,” he explains, taking another sip of rum. “I was worried about her. I was afraid Gold would hurt her. So I went up there, but as anyone could have guessed, I only made it worse. Her husband went on a rampage, screaming and throwing things. I tried to stop him, but he’s stronger than me, and he overpowered me quickly. He knocked me unconscious, and when I woke up, he was gone, and his boy, too. There was only Milah.”

He starts to cry in earnest now, and Emma tightens her hold on his face, trying to keep him in place, trying to keep him together somehow.

“Emma, there was so much _blood_ ,” he chokes out. “She was lying in a pool of blood, and I called 911, but it was too late, I was too late, and they rushed her to the hospital but she was already dead by the time we got there, and I just – I just – it’s all my fault, it’s all my fault. She’s gone and it’s all my fault and I don’t –”

Emma’s heart clenches, and she wraps her arms around him as fully as she can. “It’s not your fault,” she promises, running her fingers through his hair. “It’s not your fault, Killian. You didn’t do this.”

“I shouldn’t have gone up there,” he mumbles into her hair, his tears wet on her collarbone. “If I hadn’t gone up there, she’d still be alive. I killed her, Emma. I killed her.”

She pulls back so she can look him in the eye. “You did _not_ kill her, Killian,” she says firmly, willing him to believe her. “You are not responsible for this. And you are going to be okay.”

He blinks, moisture clinging to his eyelashes. “I don’t know what to do.”

She sighs, suddenly wishing with all her heart that just this once, life wouldn’t deal this man such a cruel hand. He’s already lost so much – his parents, his homeland, his brother (his hero), his hand, and now, the only woman he has ever loved. She doesn’t know how he bears it.

“You don’t have to do anything,” she says. “You’re just going to sit here with me. You’re going to drink, and you’re going to cry, and I’m going to hold you. Then we’re going to pass out. We’ll deal with everything in the morning, but for tonight, you’re just going to be here with me, and I’m going to do my best to remind you that you’re not alone.”

She pauses, her fingers twining in the thatch of hair at the nape of his neck. “Okay?”

He nods jerkily. “Okay.”

And so they do exactly what she says. She pours him drink after drink, listening as he tells her about the color of Milah’s eyes and the silkiness of her hair, about how Milah swallowed him whole and even though every part of him felt guilt and shame about their affair he couldn’t walk away, how he’s scared to face the world without her. He knocks back several shots, crying in Emma’s arms, wordless, heaving sobs that leave him breathless and her with tears in her own eyes. He drinks himself into a stupor, and normally she would never suggest alcohol as a way to numb his pain, and if he tries to do this again tomorrow she’s sure as hell going to stop it. But he clearly needs it tonight; she won’t deny him this comfort tonight.

Finally, when the birds are beginning to chirp and fragile morning light is streaming through the bay windows, Killian slumps over, his head resting on the countertop, and she knows it’s time to put him to bed.

“Killian,” she says softly, shaking his shoulder lightly. “Let’s get you to bed.”

He grunts in reply, but he comes willingly, leaning into her as she walks them down the hallway to her bedroom. She gently eases him into bed, pulling the covers up to his chin, and she’s about to close the door and go crash on the couch when his voice rings out, small and childish and so broken that she winces.

“Will you stroke my forehead until I fall asleep?”

She has to close her eyes, overwhelmed by a surge of affection, but she does as he asks, sitting on the edge of the bed and gently tracing the lines of his forehead with her fingers. He curls into her almost instinctively, reaching for her free hand and pulling himself closer to her. She hums under her breath, a lullaby that Ruth used to sing when Emma was afraid of being taken away, and she watches the steady heave of his chest, hoping he can at least find peace in his dreams. He looks young like this, eyes rimmed with red, body caved in on itself, and she knows she’s never going to let him go.

His breathing starts to slow, but then:

“I love you, you know.”

Emma’s breath hitches. Her hand stills on his forehead. She doesn’t say anything. Shock coats her veins.

Killian squeezes her hand, his eyes finding hers in the dawn. His gaze is surprisingly clear for the amount of rum he’s indulged in.

“You probably think I’m just drunk and I’m just sad and I don’t mean it,” he says, and there’s no slur in his words, no hint of confusion in his voice, and Emma feels her whole world slow down until she can hear the blood pounding in her ears. “And the odds are that I won’t remember this in the morning. But –”

“But?”

The word is out before Emma can stop it. They shouldn’t be having this conversation for so many reasons, and she knows she’ll regret this, but – Killian’s gaze is heavy on her face; her cheeks are burning.

“I love you,” he says again, softer now, and oh boy, now she’s in danger of believing him. “I always have.”

She holds her breath. She feels frozen.

“But – but – Milah,” she stutters. She can’t form complete sentences right now. This is so wrong, so unfair, and she doesn’t even think she can process what is happening.

Tears slip from his eyes again. “Of course, I love Milah,” he says, and there’s conviction in his voice, as there always is when he talks about her. “But I just wanted you to know. I’ve tried not to love you, but I do. And maybe someday –”

“Someday,” she returns fiercely, almost without knowing she’s speaking.

His answering grin lights up the whole room.

…

Emma wakes hours before Killian does, her roots as a bail bondsperson leaving it difficult for her to sleep in. She makes breakfast as quietly as she can, burning bacon to a crisp just how he likes it and adding Monterey Jack to the eggs to make him smile. She makes several pots of coffee, knowing his massive hangover will need it, and generally putts about. She’s nervous; he probably doesn’t remember much of last night, but his words are seared into her brain, and she doesn’t think she can act like it didn’t happen. But she feels impossibly selfish, too; he just lost his love, and she’s dwelling on whether he returns her long-dormant feelings. It’s wrong.

She’s lost in thought when he finally emerges, padding into her kitchen with his hair sticking up in every direction and his eyes haunted. She hands him a mug of coffee – he’s not usually capable of speech in the morning before he has caffeine – and then, she waits. She’ll take his cues here. Whatever he wants to do, she’ll do it.

She thrusts a plate at him and watches warily as he wolfs down the food. He doesn’t say anything, and she hopes he doesn’t feel awkward around her. That’s the last thing she wants.

Finally, he looks up at her. “Swan, I can’t thank you enough for everything you did for me last night.”

She swallows. “Of course. You’re my friend, Killian. Something terrible happened to you. I’m always going to be there for whatever you need.”

He smiles, something soft and genuine. “And I’m so grateful for that,” he says, covering her hands with his own. “I haven’t always been the best friend to you, and it means the world to me that you took care of me.”

She nods, ducking her head bashfully.

They’re quiet for a long moment, lost in thought, and Emma feel this strong pang of affection for Killian. He looks so lost sitting there, his eyes bloodshot, his hair disheveled and scraggly, his hand clenched in a tight fist on his jittery knee. She wants to protect him, from anything and everything.

“Killian,” she says at last, stepping close to him, close enough that she can feel the tension radiating from his shoulders. “I’m _so_ sorry.”

He looks up at her, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. He’s trembling, and she covers his hands with hers.

“What can I do?” She asks, moving into the circle of his body, hoping maybe her proximity can give him some sort of comfort. “How can I help?”

He slides his hand up her knee, moving it to her waist. He tugs her into him without warning, and she falls against him, enough that he rests his head on her chest, and wraps his arms around her. He lets out a deep breath, and all at once she feels the stress leak out of him.

“You’re doing it,” he murmurs, nuzzling into her, and something gets caught in her throat.

“I just want you to be okay,” she confesses, carding her fingers through his silky hair. “I’m here for you, I just want you to be okay.”

He hums noncommittally, the vibration rumbling through her chest, and she holds him a little tighter. Killian has been a part of her since the moment he showed up on her doorstep 16 years ago, and she has no intention of ever letting him go.

“I will be,” he says confidently, his voice shaky but strong. “I will be.”

She believes him.

…

Milah’s husband tells Killian that if he goes to her funeral, he will make his life a living hell. Killian wants to go anyways, of course, insisting that these are empty threats, but Emma manages to convince him that he shouldn’t put himself in danger – and, more importantly, that they can honor Milah’s memory better by themselves.

They spend the day curled up on the couch, watching Milah’s favorite movies and drinking copious amounts of rum. Killian laughs and cries in turn, and Emma feels like she can finally breathe because she can tell that this is cathartic for him.

They don’t talk about how he grabbed her hand in the moonlight and told her he loved her. She assumes he doesn’t remember.

If she’s wrong, he doesn’t correct her.

…

Killian sends Milah’s son a check every month.

Emma pretends she doesn’t know.

(She’s so proud of him she could burst.)

…

Emma is 28 when she realizes she relies on Killian for everything. 

She realizes this because she decides to find her son. She agonizes over it, naturally. She doesn’t regret giving up Henry (his adoptive mother named him after her father, apparently) for adoption – she was too young and too incapable of taking care of herself to be responsible for someone else – but she’s had an ache in her chest for the past decade, and she finally feels stable enough to do something about it. She has a job she loves with great benefits and a support system, and she’s not a mess anymore. She can do this. She _wants_ to do this.

Strangely enough, it’s not as complicated as she expected it to be. She agreed to a closed adoption when she gave Henry up, but when she inquires about changing those terms at the adoption agency, the agent tells her (with no small amount of surprise) that Henry and his adoptive mother have actually been inquiring about getting in touch with her, too, and she can try to arrange a meeting between the three of them. Emma is stunned that Henry is looking for her, too, and she feels a small flicker of hope.

Things move quickly after that. She learns that Henry lives in Boston with his adoptive mother Regina, that he is in perfect health and incredibly bright for his age, that he loves fairytales and videogames and grilled cheese. They talk over the phone once a week (with Regina on the other line, of course) and Skype a couple times (Emma will never get over the shock of seeing her green eyes reflected back at her), and after about a month, the social worker suggests that Henry come to stay at Emma’s apartment for a weekend, with Regina staying in a hotel nearby just in case. Emma agrees immediately, of course. She can’t wait to physically meet her son.

But as his visit draws nearer, she gets more and more nervous. She and Henry have communicated a lot since her first visit to the adoption agency, but she doesn’t really know him. She’s missed all the important things in his life – what if he resents her for giving him up? What if they don’t get along at all? What if –

And furthermore, what if the social worker finds her wanting? She’s not suing for full custody, or even really partial custody – she just wants to be able to have a relationship with Henry, and maybe see him sometimes, but entirely on Regina’s terms, as she has reassured her countless times. But if the visit goes horribly wrong, the social worker has the power to prevent her from ever seeing Henry again.

Emma can’t even bear the thought.

She’s in the middle of deep-cleaning her apartment – she’s dusting all the furniture in the living room, even though no one has sat in her living room since 2008 – when Killian lets himself in, hanging his jacket on his hook by the door and shaking the snow out of his hair. She doesn’t look up from her task, probably because Killian has had a key since Milah died and she has long since accepted that he is probably a permanent fixture in her life at this point.

He helps himself to a glass of water and then puts a kettle of tea on the stove, just as he does every day when he comes home from work. He’s woven himself into the fabric of her day-to-day almost without her noticing, and it works, it’s easy. He’s a steady presence, always making sure she eats enough on stakeouts, equipping her with snowchains when the first ice storm of the season hits, kneading her shoulders when she’s been running after a petty criminal all day. They practically live together at this point – he has a drawer of clothes in her spare bedroom, and he crashes in her apartment more often than not.

But somehow, they’ve managed not to cross the line into romance.

Emma’s not quite sure what she’s waiting for. He hasn’t told her he loves her since the night Milah died, and he’s probably still grieving, still raw, and she refuses to take advantage of his vulnerability. But mostly, it just feels like they’re both biding their time. He seems settled now, at peace. He and David patched up things shortly after Milah’s death (Emma imagines that conversation involved a lot of manly tears and red wine), and the four of them often make dinner together and play board games late into the night. David and Mary Margaret fully expect her and Killian to get it together and _get together_ , and sometimes, when she’s on the couch watching Netflix, her head on Killian’s shoulder and his fingers rubbing absentminded circles on her neck, the world slows down and she almost makes a move.

Almost.

But she doesn’t, probably because he’s the most constant person in her life and she can’t stand to lose him. She’s never had a healthy, functional relationship – she doesn’t want to risk messing things up with Killian just because most of the time she has to sit on her hands to stop herself from jumping him.

She’s jolted out of these traitorous thoughts by Killian’s lilting, familiar voice.

“Emma, love, what shall I start for dinner?” He asks airily, rummaging through the cupboards for supplies. “Shall we do Bolognese? Or chicken parmesan? I’m feeling Italian tonight, what do you say?”

Emma doesn’t answer; she’s way too busy vibrating with nervous energy, her every blood vessel threatening to burst as she ponders if Henry will like her. She’s been washing the same plate over and over again, like a compulsion, and she isn’t listening to Killian at all.

“Emma?” Killian asks again, his voice the slightest edge of concerned. “Are you alright, love?”

Emma stills, her hands tight on the plate. “Um –”

Killian comes up behind her, his arm coming around her waist. As always, his touch calms her racing heart. “What’s wrong? I can tell something isn’t right, Emma.”

He gently spins her around to face him, and she sighs heavily, fisting her hands in the front of his shirt and resting her forehead against his. It’s both a blessing and a curse that he knows her so well at this point that it always takes him less a minute to figure out that something is off.

“Talk to me, Emma,” he says, voice low and soft.

“Henry’s coming to visit this weekend,” she says after a minute.

He pulls back to look at her, and she can tell he's shocked. “Henry?” He asks, and she knows he’s remembering the time she called him her sophomore year of college, sobbing raggedly as she told him the social worker sent her a picture of her son, crying because she didn’t even get a chance to name him. “Your…your son?”

Emma nods jerkily. “I got in touch with the social worker a few weeks ago,” she explains, her fingers dipping below the collar of his shirt so she can feel his warm skin, have something to anchor her. “Turns out Henry was curious about me, too, and now he’s going to be here this weekend.”

Killian lets out a low whistle. “Wow.”

Emma laughs ruefully. “Yeah, wow. It’s a lot.”

He cocks his head, peering at her curiously. “How do you feel about it?”

She looks away, confused. That’s not such an easy question to answer.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “Obviously I’m really excited to meet him, but it scares me, you know? I gave him up, he could hate me for that. Sometimes _I_ hate me for that. And I just –”

She breaks off, closing her eyes, but Killian doesn’t jump in to finish her thought for her. That’s one of her favorite things about him, that he doesn’t fill the silence. He just lets her come to conclusions on her own.

“I’m afraid to want him again,” she confesses, and now she’s crying, because that’s what she’s been so consumed with, this fear of loving him and needing him, only to have to give him up again. “I’ve spent the past decade trying to forget about him, trying to convince myself that I did the right thing and that we’re both better off. I don’t know that I can do this. I’m not sure I can open myself up to needing him in my life.”

Killian tips her chin up so she’s looking at him, tucking her hair behind her ear with gentle, affectionate fingers. “Aye, that’s definitely scary, love,” he acknowledges. “But you’re stronger than you know. You can do this.”

“But what if –” She hesitates. “What if he doesn’t even like me?”

Killian smiles at her, and it’s the smile he reserves just for her, the smile that says _You’re my best friend_ and _I want to take care of you for as long as you’ll let me._ “Emma,” he says fondly, stroking her cheek, and she wants to melt into him, wants to burrow into him and never come up for air. “Your boy is going to love you. You’re his mother. And besides, you’re bloody amazing.”

She grins, but –

“How do you know?” She asks, and she’s ashamed of how small her voice sounds, but it doesn’t matter because this is Killian, the man she’s seen at his absolute lowest, the man who’s been by her side every time her world has collapsed. “How do you know this won’t be a total disaster?”

He chuckles. “I’ve yet to see you fail.”

She can’t help but smile at that, and she lets him pull her into his arms, his embrace warm and strong as always.

“Will you…” She trails off, unsure if she’s allowed to ask this within the undefined confines of their friendship. “Will you stay with me tonight?”

He nods immediately, smoothing her hair in a practiced motion that never fails to leave her a little lightheaded. “Of course, love. I was planning on it, it’s late and I’d rather not drive across town when I might fall asleep at the wheel. Wouldn’t want the sheriff to have to give me a ticket.”

His voice is wry, and she giggles, pulling back to look at him. She shakes her head, still enclosed in the comforting circle of his arms. He stays in her guest room more often than not – a fact Ruby likes to tease her mercilessly about – but that’s not what she wants, not tonight. She feels very alone, and she wants – maybe needs – him beside her.

“No,” she corrects him, heat rapidly rising to her cheeks. “I mean _stay_ with me.”

His eyebrows shoot up, and she rushes to clarify. “No, not like that, not like that,” she manages to get out despite the loud rush of blood in her ears, because _God_ she is not ready for that right now. “I just – I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

“Of course,” he says smoothly, his face quickly arranged into a mask of placid helpfulness. But Emma knows better. She saw a flash of disappointment in his eyes when she specified, and it makes her heart clench tightly in her chest. Could it…

But no. She shakes her head, shaking herself free of the tantalizing possibility. She doesn’t have the emotional capacity to deal with that potential change in their dynamic right now. She has to focus on Henry.

So she leads him into her bedroom, and they get undressed in silence. It should be awkward, and yet, of course it’s not. So many things that should be awkward between them just aren’t, and one day when she’s brave enough, she’ll explore why.

They lie in bed for a while, the fan casting tidy shadows on the walls, the only sound the rise and fall of their synchronized breathing. Emma feels oddly peaceful, and she knows it’s because of Killian’s familiar warmth next to her, the tickle of his arm hair on her bare skin comforting. Everything about him is comforting, as always.

So she doesn’t think. She doesn’t hesitate. She just rolls over, slinging an arm across his chest and burrowing into his side.

His breath hitches, but he doesn’t move away, and after only a moment he relaxes beneath her, his free arm coming to rest on her back, cradling her close. After another moment, he starts to skim his fingers up and down her spine, and he nuzzles her head with his, so lovingly that she has to close her eyes.

“Thank you, Killian,” she whispers into the darkness. “For everything.”

He merely hums in response, his hand continuing its thorough sweep of her spine, and his touch lulls her to sleep.

…

She doesn’t see Killian all weekend, for obvious reasons – they’re not dating, and she needs to focus her energy on Henry – and she isn’t surprised that she misses him.

Henry, of course, is a complete joy. He is bright and inquisitive, and so adorable that often she can’t resist the urge to ruffle his hair. He gives his affection freely, and although they have a tearful conversation about why she gave him up, he seems to accept her reasons easily and move on, as only a 10-year-old can do. She enjoys spending time with him; they watch movies and drink hot chocolate with cinnamon on her couch, they walk all over town while Henry’s imagination runs wild, they play board games when the typical summer rain comes. It’s much easier than she expects, and she revels in it, excited about the possibility of many more weekends to come.

But the two and a half days pass much more quickly than she would like, and soon enough it’s time for a goodbye dinner at Granny’s. Thankfully, Regina has already promised to bring Henry to Storybrooke again in a month, so it’s not a goodbye so much as a see-you-later. On an impulse, Emma invites David, Mary Margaret, Ruth, and Killian to dinner, and on yet another impulse she invites Regina, too. Once, not so long ago, she had no one to depend on – now, she has more family than she knows what to do with. It’s a lot to take in.

Dinner is a chaotic affair. David and Mary Margaret are fixated on Henry – they’re expecting a baby in a few months, and they’re trying to babysit as many kids as they can in the meantime. Henry chatters the whole time, and Ruth just looks on fondly.

Of course, it’s Killian who Henry gravitates to the most. He’s intrigued by Killian’s job as harbormaster, asking if he owns a boat and if they can go sailing the next time he visits. He and Killian banter back and forth, and Killian looks at her boy with such easy, obvious affection that Emma struggles to breathe for a moment.

She catches his eye over Henry’s head, and she smiles. “Thank you,” she mouths. _Thank you for believing in me when I don’t believe in myself. Thank you for being my support system when I feel like I can’t do it alone. Thank you for being you._

He nods, his eyes full of an emotion that sears her very soul, and mouths back, “Always, Swan.”

Of course, what she really meant to say was _I love you_.

…

Emma is 30 when she finally gives in.

Henry has just left after his monthly visit, and Emma and Killian are cleaning up the remnants of dinner. The three of them had a truly magical weekend together; they went sailing all of Saturday for the first beautiful Maine summer day, then went to dinner at David and Mary Margaret’s (and cooed over their toddler, obviously) before watching the new Star Wars movie, and then today they took up Henry’s summer project and made a birdhouse in the backyard. It has been utterly perfect, and Emma is the happiest she can remember being in a while, sunkissed and exhausted and ready to fall into a dreamless sleep, preferably with Killian by her side.

She and Killian are loading the dishwasher, their practiced symbiosis in the kitchen on full display, when Killian clears his throat.

“Swan.”

Emma hums, luxuriating in the sunset peeking out through the bay windows.

Killian lays a hand on her arm. “ _Swan_.”

She looks up, smiling when she meets his ocean-blue eyes. “Yes?”

He sighs, scratching behind his ear, and she straightens, snapped out of her dreamlike state. Is he…nervous?

“Look, I just – I just wanted to – apologize, I guess,” he explains haltingly, making a small noise of frustration.

“Apologize?” Emma echoes, dumbfounded. What could he possibly have to apologize for? He was absolutely perfect this weekend. In fact, she thinks she has never been more in love with him.

(Which is saying a lot, considering she’s been in love with him since she discovered boys existed.)

Killian resumes methodically stacking glasses in the dishwasher, presumably so he doesn’t have to look at her. “Well, I suppose I wanted to apologize for intruding this weekend. I know you don’t get to spend much time with your boy, and I feel as if I imposed, so I just –”

“Wait.” Emma grabs his wrist, and he looks up at her, shocked. “You really think you ‘intruded’ this weekend?”

He falters, wearing his telltale sheepish expression. “Well, to be honest, Swan,” he says slowly, his cheeks reddening, “I’m never quite sure when I’m intruding.”

Emma stutters, then sighs. She’s never been as good at putting her feelings into words as he is, and she supposes she hasn’t done a very good job of communicating to him that she pretty much always wants him around. Probably because that admission involves some element of risk – what if he doesn’t want to be around as much as she wants him to be? – and personal risks are not something that she’s familiar with.

But she knows she has to try to express herself this time. He deserves her honesty, and at this point, she’s tired of dancing around this _thing_ between them.

So she steels herself for some confessions.

“You’re never intruding,” she says softly, holding his gaze. “If you haven’t noticed in the past couple of years, I almost always want you here.”

She’s rewarded by the brightest grin she’s ever seen on him, and she smiles in return, but bashfully, because she can tell they’re heading down a dangerous path and she’s not sure she can stop it.

(She’s not sure she wants to stop it.)

“Trust me, Emma,” he says gently, tracing circles on her wrist. “There’s no place I’d rather be.”

She looks down, flushing hotly. “Besides,” she says lightly, busying herself with scrubbing a pan clean of marinara sauce so she doesn’t have to address what he just said, “You know I’m not very good at being subtle. If I didn’t want you here this weekend, you would know.”

He chuckles, a warm, deep sound that reverberates through her blood. “Too true,” he says, and there’s an undercurrent to his voice that means trouble. “You’re pretty forthright. So tell me, Swan –”

She stiffens, hackles raising in preparation.

“What exactly am I to you?”

Her head snaps up in surprise. His eyes are stormy, and he looks anxious, but he doesn’t back down. She can see how much this question costs him – his good hand is gripped tightly into a fist, and tension practically radiates from his shoulders – but he doesn’t take it back.

“What are you really asking?” She asks instead of answering. She knows exactly what he’s saying, of course, but she feels frozen.

He sighs heavily, and then, he retrieves a detergent pod from under the sink, placing it in its container, and closes the dishwasher. It’s a simple domestic task, something she’s seen him do a hundred times, but somehow, tonight it throws her.

He’s a part of her, she realizes.

He steps closer to her, gently pressing her into the countertop, and her breath catches in her throat. Physical contact has always come easily to them – they’re always touching in some way, gentle kisses to her forehead and an arm slung around her shoulders when they’re watching TV, not to mention the nights he spends in her bed – but rarely has it affected her so, rarely has it made her palms sweaty and her cheeks hot.

His hands ghost up her side, and suddenly he’s cupping her face. “I spend most nights in your bed,” he says softly, his finger skimming her hairline. “We basically act like we’re a married couple. I must confess that I’m quite unclear as to what exactly we’re doing. Would you care to enlighten me?”

She gulps, and she finds that she’s unable to look away from him. She should be scared, she knows. His words are dangerous. But he’s just looking at her like he always does; he’s looking at her like he wants to stay right here forever.

(She knows the feeling.)

“You’re…” She begins, determined to be brave. She can feel the tension in the air, she knows that they’re dangling on the edge of the precipice. This time, she needs to let them fall off the side and into the abyss.

“You’re my family,” she says, holding his gaze resolutely. “You’re my partner. You’re the person I depend on.”

He’s smiling now, a grin she feels all the way down to her toes. “Is that all?”

She finds herself smiling, too. “No,” she says, her hands resting on his waist, her fingers involuntarily curling into the wool of his sweater, anchoring herself to him. “But you knew that already.”

He tilts forward a little, resting his forehead on hers, and she feels more than hears him breathe her in. She wonders if she smells as comforting to him as he does to her.

“I did,” he says, rubbing her nose with his, and she feels almost lightheaded with anticipation. “But I feel like there’s more.”

She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes. “You’re my safe haven,” she admits, trembling as she remembers the countless times he’s held her when her world has collapsed. “You’re the only person who can always make me laugh. You’re my inspiration. You’re everything, and I –”

She hesitates. He hasn’t said anything about how he feels, and she could be totally wrong here about what he wants to hear. Maybe he isn’t asking her to be honest about her feelings. Maybe he just wanted a clarification of their friendship, maybe he wants to slow down, maybe –

But now he’s tipping her chin up, his eyes locking with hers, and she feels sure about him, feels sure he wants her, too, because there’s no mistaking the love in his gaze.

Maybe it’s always been there, and she was just too afraid to see it.

“And you?” He asks, hope flooding his every word.

Emma smiles, feeling something in her finally, finally give in.

“I love you,” she says, leaning into him. “I probably always have. 

His eyes are so, so soft as he tilts his head and kisses her. It’s slow, sweet, his arms winding around her waist, his every touch reverent, worshipful. He takes his time, their breath intermingling effortlessly, his fingers tracing small circles on the skin above her hipbone. She melts into his kiss, cherishing every sigh, every press of his lips against hers, and she doesn’t hold back; she pours all her long-dormant emotions into him, hoping he understands.

(She knows he does.)

He pulls back at last, his eyes warm, the lightest blue she’s ever seen. He tucks a lock of her hair behind her ear, and she shivers at the contact. She’s aware of how cliché the thoughts running through her head are, but she honestly doesn’t know how she got this lucky.

“Emma,” he says gently, his smile fond and easy. “I love you.”

She stills. She knew that was coming, of course. She’s loved him since she was 12 years old, and she’s often wondered if he felt the same way. Over the past couple years, he’s started to look at her like she’s the sun and he wants to bask in her glow for as long as she’ll let him. But it’s jarring to hear her own words returned to her; it’s jarring to know she’s not alone in this.

“I’ve loved you since you were 15 and I really shouldn’t have,” he admits ruefully, and she gives a shaky laugh. “I told you I loved you the night Milah died. Do you remember?”

She nods, dumbfounded. “You remember?”

He ducks his head, a blush coloring his cheeks. “I should have told you,” he says, scratching that telltale spot behind his ear, and a surge of adoration floods her, making her stumble a bit. “I just wasn’t sure how you would take it and I knew it wasn’t fair of me to spring it on you like that. It just seemed easier if we pretended it never happened. I did wonder, though, why you never brought it up.”

Emma tips his chin up with her fingers, staring at him, into him, until her bones start to liquefy from the heat in his gaze. “I was scared,” she confesses, and she’s amazed at how easily the words fall from her lips. “We hadn’t spoken in forever, you were so broken, I didn’t even know how to help you. It seemed like the complete wrong time to have that conversation. And more than that…”

She trails off, unable to finish her sentence, but Killian looks at her shrewdly, his eyes unnervingly discerning as always. “What is it, love?”

She shrugs, looking down. “How I feel about you has always scared me,” she admits, her voice small, and there it is, that’s really the barrier to this working, and she feels like she can’t breathe and she knows she has to keep going anyways. “You’re a constant in my life, you’re the best person I know. I honestly don’t know what I would do if I lost you. And that’s – that’s pretty terrifying.”

His hands are light on her shoulders, and she forces herself to look up at him. He’s looking at her like he’s been waiting for her all his life.

“Emma,” he breathes, his hand cradling her face, and she leans into his touch. “You won’t lose me. I have no intention of ever letting you go.”

Her heart stutters. “Ever?”

He shakes his head. “I will _never_ let you go,” he says firmly. “I love you. I’ve always loved you, and I always will.”

She trembles, and she kisses him, and she drowns in his embrace.

It’s the happiest she’s ever been.

…

Emma is 32 when all her dreams come true.

It happens when she least expects it. It’s a Sunday night, and she’s just put Henry to bed. Regina moved to Storybrooke a year ago, giving Emma countless opportunities to see her son – she would feel guilty that Regina uprooted her entire life, but on a weekend visit a few months ago Regina met Robin and never looked back. Emma is in sweatpants, her hair piled in a mess on her head, and she feels like she might fall over any minute. She loves Henry more than she can describe, but she never realized how much work 14-year-olds could be. He has more energy than she knows what to do with.

She shoots a glance at the kitchen sink, almost overflowing with dirty dishes, and turns away disdainfully. “Will you be very angry with me if I leave the dishes for tomorrow?” She asks, wrinkling her nose.

Killian laughs. “Of course not, love,” he says fondly, folding up the newspaper he’s been paging through and pulling himself up from his perch at the counter. “I’d much rather you come to bed with me.”

She smiles, and he comes closer, twining his arms around her waist and holding her flush against him. “That does sound much better than doing the dishes,” she admits, leaning into him.

He kisses her, sliding his hand into her hair and tilting her head back, and it’s even better than the first time, it gets better every day, because it’s warm and sweet and _familiar_ , and she knows how much he loves her, she can feel it in his every touch, taste it in every moment like this. As always, it feels like coming home.

He walks her backward into their bedroom (she still thrills at the thought that they _have_ a bedroom), peeling off her clothes with tenderness as he braces his arm underneath her so she doesn’t fall on the bed. He’s kissing her reverently tonight, like he’s trying to tell her with his every breath that he’s never going to let go of her, and she drowns in it, gets swept away in it, gives into it wholeheartedly.

They make love slowly, gently, and she knows she’s never been more at peace.

After, they’re lying in bed, comfortably tangled up in each other, and Killian kisses Emma’s hair before getting up to get them both glasses of water. She doesn’t move, breathing in the smell of seawater clinging to the sheets, basking in her safe haven.

“Swan?” A voice sounds from beside the bed, and she blinks in confusion.

“Killian?” She asks, voice hazy with the promise of sleep as she blindly reaches out to his side of the bed. He’s not there, but she hears him chuckle, low and deep.

“Over here,” he says fondly, and she turns her head, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness. He’s kneeling by the edge of the bed, his eyes gleaming in the moonlight casting shadows in the room, and he’s holding something in his hand, something that looks suspiciously like –

She bolts upright, pulling the sheet up to her chest, and tries to catch her bearings, despite her heart hammering uncontrollably. “Are you –” She stutters, unable to stop herself from smiling like an idiot. “Are you _proposing_?”

He grins, scratching that spot behind his ear, and she feels such a rush of staggering love that even though she swore when she was 16 that she would never get married, she already knows what her answer will be.

“I will,” he says, smile so soft and sunny. “If you’ll let me.”

She stills, nods, stays quiet.

“Emma,” he says again, and now the moonlight slants just so and she can see the tears hovering at the corners of his eyes. “I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember. You’ve held me together every time I’ve thought my world has fallen apart, and you’ve been my partner in crime since the first time you kicked my ass in Mario Kart.”

Emma laughs, hiccupping a little as a sob gets stuck in her throat, and Killian catches her hand with his arm, kissing her fingers. She smiles bashfully – never in her wildest dreams did she imagine that this would happen.

“I want you beside me for all the good and the bad that will happen in our lives,” Killian says seriously, his eyes calm and sure. “I want to be the one who helps you bear your burdens. I love every part of you, I love waking up next to you in the morning, I love hearing your voice on the phone when I’m at work. I want all of you, and I want you forever, if you’ll have me.”

He pauses, and she grins, closing her eyes. Memories flash through her mind like chaotic, gorgeous bursts of light: the time when she was 15 and he and David were home for the summer and they tried to make ice cream cake and ended up stuck in sticky sweetness, the time when she was 27 and he spent almost every night on her couch as he tried to piece his life back together after Milah’s death, the time just last week when she spent her whole day chasing after the newest petty thief in Storybrooke and she came home to a bubble bath and her favorite tomato soup and grilled cheese and Killian massaging her feet and tucking her in, and how she thought she had never loved him more.

She opens her eyes, and he’s just looking at her like he always does, like she’s everything she’s ever wanted.

“Emma Swan,” he says, clutching her fingers so tight she knows she’ll bruise (but obviously she doesn’t mind), “Will you marry me?”

She bites her lip, overcome by emotion. “I’ve loved you since before I knew what it meant to love someone,” she says, trembling a little. “Loving you is just a part of me at this point, and I don’t want that to ever change. So –”

She sees him stiffen, and she grins.

“Yes. Yes, yes, of course I’ll marry you!”

He blinks, and then he’s on her, his lips pressing against hers ferociously, and she’s laughing, grinning into his mouth and wrapping her arms around him, and he’s kissing every part of her he can reach, and he’s whispering _I love you I love you I love you_ over and over again in her ear.

…

Emma Swan is 34 when she makes one last promise to Killian Jones.

Mary Margaret is fussing around her, rearranging her veil, touching up her blush, tittering exactly like she did at her own wedding. “Oh, Emma,” she breathes, her big brown eyes glistening with unshed tears, “You look _beautiful.”_

Emma smiles, looking at her reflection in the mirror. It’s surreal to see herself in a strapless white gown, her hair in an elaborate updo. That lost little girl who got tossed around from foster home to foster home without a second thought could never have imagined this moment. She’s not lost, not anymore – she hasn’t been for a long, long while. She has a family. She has friends. 

She has Killian.

It’s all more than she could have ever hoped for, and she chokes up, overwhelmed by how lucky she’s been.

Mary Margaret grabs her hands, grinning. “No crying!” She chastises fondly, picking up her bouquet. “You’ll ruin your makeup!”

Emma laughs and promises she’ll keep it together until the ceremony (she knows she’ll be a mess during the vows, especially since she’s walked in on Killian revising his at least a dozen times since he proposed), and then everything is a blur – David comes in to kiss her on the forehead and tell her he couldn’t be happier she got sent to live with them, Ruth wraps her in a bone-crushing hug and smiles past her sobs, her darling Henry (16 now, almost a man, and she’s so glad she gets to watch him grow up) tells her she looks beautiful and that he’s so grateful she found him all those years ago. And then, it’s time.

She stands by the doors, waiting to go in and marry the love of her life, and thinks that she’ll remember this day forever, that she’ll always remember this profound feeling of the puzzle pieces of her life finally, finally falling into place.

She rests her hand on her stomach, the gentle curve not quite there yet. She’s barely showing – she’s only a couple months along, apparently – but she went to the doctor a couple days ago, and it was confirmed. She’s having a baby. She’s having a _baby_ , and this time around she isn’t scared, or helpless. She isn’t alone. She has Killian, and she knows he will always, always take care of her.

_When you’re ready, it’ll happen again._

She’s ready now.

…

Emma Swan promises Killian Jones she’ll love him as long as they both shall live, but really, she made that promise when she was 10 and he came waltzing into her house like some kind of storm intended to turn her entire world upside down.

It’s a promise she knows she’ll never break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage” – Lao Tzu


End file.
